Mercy Quaye: Inspired by the life of Elijah Cummings

1of3A moment of silence is held in honor of Elijah Cummings prior to game four of the American League Championship Series between the Houston Astros and the New York Yankees at Yankee Stadium on Oct. 17 in New York City.Photo: Elsa / Getty Images

2of3In this photo taken on Dec. 9, 2014, US Rep. Elijah Cummings, D-Maryland, Ranking Member on the US House Committee on Oversight and Government Reform, speaks during a committee hearing on the Affordable Care Act, known as Obamacare, on Capitol Hill in Washington, DC. Cummings, who was at the center of the Trump impeachment inquiry, died on Oct. 17 at the age of 68, his office said.Photo: SAUL LOEB / AFP via Getty Images

3of3US Rep. Elijah Cummings gestures during Day 1 of the Democratic National Convention at the Wells Fargo Center in Philadelphia on July 25, 2016. Cummings, who was at the center of the Trump impeachment inquiry, died on Oct. 17 at the age of 68, his office said.Photo: ROBYN BECK / AFP via Getty Images

Elijah Cummings was a sharecropper’s son. I read those words in a piece memorializing his death last week and I got familiar and explainable chills.

The Maryland Congressman’s story is one that reaffirms the age-old demand on generations of Americans of color to be better, do better, and get further than prior generations were able to. As a sharecropper’s son, turned politician with a storied career, the 68-year-old Cummings embodied what’s expected of each of us to ensure more is possible for our posterity.

The expectation of perpetual improvement and carrying the baton further than previously possible is common in a lot of cultures. It’s just that, maybe, the weight of that baton is heavier in some.

Through remembering Cummings’ work, I’m forced to consider how far black people have come to simply exist on the same terms as white people. In examining his progression, imagining his parents’, and comparing that to where I stand today and the tumultuous climate Cummings leaves behind, I’m hopeful and also disheartened.

In theory, we’re all running the same race. In theory, the track is the same for each of us and our ability to run it is the same. But some of us have different starting lines, are running barefoot, and are carrying a weight that makes running feel like a punishment. It’s also clear that the judges are rooting for their favorites on the track — making calls that benefit them and devising arbitrary rules to hold others back. So even in a relay after passing the baton to the next runner who has learned from all the mistakes of the first leg of the race, it’s hard to close the gap because the entire race is rigged.

That, for me, perfectly describes American race relations over the decades. It also describes Cummings’ role in the pursuit of liberty and justice for all.

He was only 11 when the civil rights movement was underway — in that, he wasn’t really on the track himself, but as a teen in Baltimore, working to integrate the city’s pools, he was certainly training for his own race.

By the time he was ready to run, he did so to secure a seat as a U.S. Representative in 1996. He spent the rest of his career demanding justice for those impacted by civil, systemic and social oppression.

I’ve often been told that I have a responsibility to my community — one in which I claim, value, and honor when the words come from people who share that responsibility. But I recoil at the idea when spat at me or emailed to me by folks who don’t share my race and background, demanding that I do more for black lives by condemning black people’s actions they disagree with.

Accountability and responsibility for the community are, it seems, ideals others require for people of color.

Since black people aren’t the monolith that so many people think we are, it’s difficult to receive feedback that we’re not doing enough for the black community or that our participation in the race is somehow insubstantial. What’s more, white people aren’t ever held to that standard. Northern white people especially.

It’s sometimes easy to think Connecticut hasn’t been a participant in racial oppression, and that being in the north we were able to dodge it. And sure, in some ways that’s true. But in most ways, black people are running rigged races in the Nutmeg state just like any other place.

Even with the ardent advocacy of legislators of color throughout the state, entire communities of color and from low-income backgrounds are finding it difficult to close all kinds of gaps. We’ve seen policymakers in our state follow in Cummings’ tradition — speaking truth to power, holding power accountable, and continuing to work hard for the place you came from.

Legislators of color are picking up Cummings’ baton, and although the burden of improving conditions for people of color everywhere shouldn’t fall to them, it sometimes feels like it does. Similar to how Baltimore relied on Cummings to finish the next leg of the race, so many places across the state rely on these legislators to do the same.

“Whenever a political leader with a legacy as massive as Elijah Cummings passes, it’s a gentle reminder that we must all participate in the ongoing fight for equity and justice in every community we serve,” said state Rep. Quentin Phipps of Middletown. “I personally take this moment to reset my intentions as a legislator and recommit to the work ahead in a way that most authentically honors the progress made by legislators before us.”

Phipps was on the steering community for the Equity Symposium, a day-long event Saturday to deepen the conversations about systemic issues in Connecticut and develop a strategy for achieving equity in local communities.

As an alumnus of Alabama State University, state Rep. Brandon McGee of Hartford said he was always required to remember “whose shoulder we stood on.”

“As a student in Montgomery, Alabama, the bedrock of where the civil rights movement took place, I’ve always known about Representatives like Elijah Cummings and John Lewis,” he said. “Now that I’m a grown man and able to find my own voice in the struggle, I realize this dude was literally a giant in American politics.”

McGee said he thinks of that class of black legislators as our modern-day Martin Luther King Jr. and feels an immense sense of gratitude and responsibility to pick up the baton.

“Being a giant required tenacity, grit, and perseverance, having to step out often and do things we talk about but don’t often do,” he said. “As the chair of the Black and Puerto Rican Caucus, I often look to his character when fighting for our communities. Making sure that people know that we’re still listening, and we still care. That’s what I get from Elijah Cummings and the rest of the legislators on serving at that level.”

For McGee, the load people of color carry makes their race a little harder to run. It’s exhausting and at times debilitating, but since I don’t see this race ending any time soon, we could view Cummings’ example as a sharecropper’s son turned ardent legislator for peoples’ rights as powerful strides toward a distant finish line.

Mercy Quaye is a social change communications consultant and a New Haven native. Her column appears Mondays in Hearst Connecticut Media daily newspapers. Contact her at @Mercy_WriteNow and SubtextWithMercy@gmail.com.

Mercy Quaye is a social change communications consultant and a New Haven native. Her column appears Mondays in Hearst Connecticut Media daily newspapers. Contact her at @Mercy_WriteNow and SubtextWithMercy@gmail.com.